The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

If I could go back, I know I’d do things differently, but I don’t even know exactly what that means. I’d still get annoyed by my parents’ overbearing watchfulness. I’d still find Janie about the most irritating person on the planet. Maybe we’d have a couple of idyllic days, but before long, I’m sure we’d be back to our old ways.

 

But maybe all that doesn’t even matter—the day-to-day stuff. The important thing is that you know, at your core, that you love someone and are loved.

 

Not getting along perfectly isn’t a huge flaw.

 

It’s just … life.

 

But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

 

 

 

 

It was the longest driveway I’d ever been on—practically a road all by itself.

 

And it’s mine, I marveled, watching the trees go by in a blur.

 

All of it—the ten-foot brick wall, the rusted metal entry gate, the untended brush and the unending ribbon of bumpy, decaying asphalt. My head spun at the thought of actually owning something so real, so significant. My own house. What would it look like? Would it be cute and well kept, or falling apart, in disrepair? Seeing as we planned to spend the whole summer getting it ready to sell, my hopes were pretty realistically in the “glass half-empty” range.

 

We rounded a corner and the structure came into view.

 

Janie was the first one to speak. “Delia gets that?!” she spat, her long-simmering jealousy boiling over. “Are you kidding me? That’s not a house! It’s a hotel or something!”

 

Our parents didn’t answer. They were staring (we all were) at an immense gray building that resembled a giant stone monster that had perched on a hill to rest.

 

It was easily a hundred feet wide and three stories tall—four, if you counted the space under the roof gables, which must have been an attic. Wings extended off each side, and each floor was lined with a dozen windows. The entrance was an imposing pair of double doors under a stone overhang.

 

It was so big that I had to duck down in my seat to see all the way to the faded gray roof tiles that blurred into the misty late afternoon sky.

 

“Nice house, Deedee,” Janie said darkly, using what had been her nickname for me when she was little, and which she now used to drive me to the brink of sisterly homicide. “It’s probably haunted.”

 

“Your face is haunted,” I said.

 

My sister let out a warning squeal, but before we could get into it, Mom cleared her throat. “There’s a storm coming. Let’s get everything inside, please.”

 

Dad parked underneath the overhang and we all climbed out of the car. Mom opened the trunk and loaded my sister up with air mattresses and pillows, then grabbed a pair of suitcases. They disappeared through the front doors together.

 

When Dad and I were alone outside, he looked up at the building. “I must say, Delia, this is not what I expected.”

 

Yeah, join the club. “How’d Aunt Cordelia die, Dad?” I asked. “For real.”

 

My father sighed as he began handing me duffel bags. “She killed herself,” he said. “But please don’t tell Janie. Hysterics are the last thing we need.”

 

I was surprised that I wasn’t very surprised. In a way I felt like I’d known it. Poor Aunt Cordelia. “Why do you think she did it?”

 

He thought for a second. “She was old … and probably very lonely. And sick. Apparently, there was some dementia toward the end.”

 

Very lonely. There was a sad weight in my stomach. If I hadn’t stopped writing to her, would she have been a happier person? Would she have stayed alive?

 

“Where did she do it?” I asked.

 

My father brightened. “That’s the good news. She wasn’t even on the property. She swallowed a bunch of pills and went for a walk along the highway. They actually thought she’d died of natural causes until they found the empty bottles and did a postmortem.”

 

The good news? “God,” I said, imagining an old lady limping down that endless driveway, growing dizzy and weak. “That’s terrible.”

 

“I appreciate your compassion, but you didn’t even know her. Don’t resort to melodrama.” Typical Dad—nothing was worth caring about unless it affected him directly.

 

“I did know her,” I said, scowling out at the decrepit fountain in the center of the driveway. “I still have her letters. And I’m not being melodramatic. Did she leave a note?”

 

My father ran his hand over his chin. “Not that I know of,” he said. “But look around … maybe you’ll find something.”

 

I nodded and started for the doors, intending to do just that. In fact, I’d already decided to make learning more about Aunt Cordelia my number one priority. She’d cared enough about me to leave me her house—not just her house, her mansion. How long had it been since somebody had cared about her?